


In Search of Common Ground

by magicasen



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/pseuds/magicasen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrong place, wrong time, wrong <i>person</i>, and the consequences thereof. </p><p>Diverges between <i>Mirror Dance</i> and <i>Memory</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Search of Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magistera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistera/gifts).



> Hello, magistera! Gregor and Miles are my absolute favorite characters in the series. I'm so glad we like the same things about them and their relationship. So, it was a pleasure writing this story for you, and I hope you enjoy it! Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Thank you to S for looking this over.

Miles lit up with pleased surprise when Gregor was the one to open the door for him. The gesture wasn't indicative of anything; Miles had been under close, if discreet, monitoring the moment his groundcar had crossed onto the Imperial grounds. But it did breathe some meaning into the personal invitation for dinner Gregor had extended for the evening, and Gregor was now glad to have done even this small thing.

Miles was swiftly ushered in by a harried Gerard, judging from the barely perceptible pinch between his eyebrows. At least he could have the satisfaction of closing the door, which he did before Gregor nodded at him in dismissal.

“Count Vorbarra,” Miles greeted with an extravagant bow once they were alone. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“Lord Vorkosigan.” Gregor kept his features carefully unaffected, lest a smile slip through. Neither of them were sporting their House uniforms. “Is that how you greet a Count? You should be careful with such displays. It's not very becoming of two subjects of the Imperium.”

“Oh yes. If the Emperor ever found out, we could both be accused of collusion for treason.”

“Mm, over such a small thing? Maybe if he was as insane as Mad Yuri. I sincerely hope not.”

“That Gregor fellow?” Miles's face screwed up. “He's rather solemn, but fair and just, and as I've heard tell, kind and caring under all that Imperial severity. I gather he's the best Emperor we'll see this side of the Time of Isolation.”

A warm flush worked its way up Gregor's cheeks as he failed to follow up. Perhaps this is why flattery worked on people. Most of the time it merely irritated him. He had no craving for any praise heaped upon the performance of his duties, especially not when there existed no higher person than his own that could rightfully bestow it. All Gregor needed was compliance. When it came to what he himself wanted, then satisfaction, grudging if need be, was enough.

Personal compliments, however, from the few who actually knew him, were rare and few between, and as it turned out, startlingly effective.

Or maybe it was just Miles. That man was defined by how many rules he was the exception to.

Gregor wondered what had Miles up in such high spirits today as he accompanied his guest to their dining set-up. It was exceedingly rare for just the two of them to have dinner together; Gregor couldn't recall any time in the past few years. When Miles was on his infrequent leaves, they would usually be in the company of Miles's family. Miles's illustrious parents, Count and Countess Vorkosigan, now Viceroy and Vicerine Vorkosigan, had decamped for Sergyar scant months prior, and the most recent addition to the line, Miles's, hm, unforeseen was the kindest way to put it, clone-brother Mark, was now attending university on Beta Colony.

It was nice, though, Gregor thought as they settled in for dinner. An idle comment on their appetizers cued Miles, and he was off on a tale of his Dendarii Mercenaries. They were the sort of stories that Miles's boss, ImpSec Chief Simon Illyan, didn't deem fit to pass on to Gregor's ears in his daily reports, or, more likely, ones that Miles himself probably didn't apprise him of. But it was well enough to hear them from Miles's own mouth, his excitement palpable in being able to divulge highly declassified mission details as dinner entertainment.

Possibly there was no one else on Barrayar that Miles could do this with. Simon and the Count and Countess were right out, and Gregor didn't imagine that Ivan would be so accommodating to Miles's conversational whims. That sort of allowance was how Miles got to you from the start, and the man knew it too well. Good for Gregor he had his title behind him, then, as some natural Miles-wheedling deterrent. But not, thankfully, as a natural Miles deterrent, like it was for so many others.

Besides, their conversation was a mutually beneficial thing. Gregor's natural inclination to listen was always rewarded when he was with Miles. He spoke to prompt Miles further, and to provide comments where he saw fit, and sometimes even to offer up some behind-the-Imperial-scenes mishaps much to Miles's clear amusement. For the rest of the time, Gregor smiled as freely as he was used to.

He tried to remind himself, like he did every so often when he was with Miles in the past year, when Miles was especially vivacious, of what had been the truth for that awful stretch of time. _He was dead,_ and he couldn't believe it here, not when the man had enough presence to fill even the furthest corners of the lonely Residence.

It didn't take long for Gregor to note the sudden silence, despite being lost in his own thoughts. He glanced up to be subjected to Miles's scrutiny.

“What's up?” Miles said.

“I was a bit distracted,” admitted Gregor reluctantly. “Sorry. Go on, you were talking about how Sergeant Taura singlehandedly got those dozen soldiers to surrender to her on the spot...?”

Miles sighed affectedly. “And I can _always_ count on you to listen without calling me a suicidal idiot, unlike Ivan.” His expression took on some worry. “You look like you just swallowed a roach, which I know can't be true, because I'm eating this exquisite vat-chicken dish too. I _know_ your cook is more biased toward your plate than mine. For the good of the Imperium, and all.”

Gregor looked down at his half-eaten vat-chicken. “I was thinking of last year.” Gregor didn't need say more than that, as Miles's expression extinguished like a candle's flame shut away.

“Ah,” Miles said eloquently. He put down his fork, face paling. “Anything in...particular that you needed to tell me?” His eyes had gone wide in trepidation, and it was not unlike those people bracing for a blow in the Emperor's own Voice.

“No.” Gregor blinked. What was Miles so afraid of that Gregor would do to him? “I'm not reflecting on you – ” well, he was, but not in a way that Miles needed to hear about – “it just comes up in thought, every so often.”

Miles relaxed unmistakably. “Well, I know how that feels,” Miles chuckled hollowly. “Although from how some people go on about it, I think I got off easy, as crazy as that sounds. The experience seems more traumatizing for everyone involved other than me.”

That was a lie, and Gregor stifled his knee-jerk reaction at being lied to. Neither of them made further comment on it, which meant Miles already knew how well his words had been seen through.

“It's fine. It's all in the past now, where it can't touch us.” Miles didn't meet his eyes. “I'm here now, and I plan to be so for the foreseeable future.” Miles smiled reassuringly at him just before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed writhing to the floor.

The scene didn't register, at first. There was the glass of wine knocked over, the deep red ring of it staining the priceless rug, steeped like blood. The chair had gone with Miles when he'd toppled over, trapping part of his body beneath it. There was Miles, and it wasn't so much the lack of expression, as deeply unsettling as that was, as the one that did remain, his lips pulled back over his teeth in some sick mockery of a grin that Miles would never make.

Oh God, Miles.

Gregor sent something flying, he didn't care what as he fell to his knees. _Can I move him? No, it's not a concussion, it's –_ he eased Miles flat onto the floor. Miles was trembling, or, more accurately, his _body_ was trembling, because there was no Miles present here. Tremors passed like waves, and part of Gregor wanted to grab him, to hold him still and make it stop.

He fumbled wildly, before slowing down and tugging a handkerchief from his inside pocket. He stuffed it into Miles's mouth, making sure it was clamped firmly between his teeth. The hand-embroidered cloth had been a gift from Cordelia, and Gregor imagined she wouldn't care when it was being used to save her son's tongue.

Just as Miles arrested one's attention when – when _present_ , so he did here too, for all the wrong reasons. Gregor wouldn't have dared to look away, despite how every moment that passed felt like it was squeezing the breath from him. Will it stop? When it stopped, where would that leave Miles? _Is he dying again?_

How much time had passed? It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but even a few minutes without air was enough to kill when Miles finally went limp. Gregor, mind and body nearly numb, leaned his ear close over Miles's chest. And...oh, he was still breathing, thank the heavens.

Gregor's heart was still hammering in relief when Miles took in an abrupt, rattling gasp. His eyes shot open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Gregor shifted so that he was the one in Miles's view.

“Miles? Are you okay? Are you with me?” Gregor took in a deep breath. “Just, just stay here, I'll go get someone.”

Then Miles went very, very still, and his eyes even wider. There was a choked garble before he turned his face and spat out the handkerchief with a dry cough.

“No!” he nearly shouted. “No, please don't tell anyone,” he blurted in a rush.

“Miles.” Gregor gentled his voice as it dawned on him that Miles's instinct had realized before his mind had time to catch up. “Who could there possibly be left to tell when I already know?”

Miles opened his mouth, like there was an answer to that, someone else on his mind, before closing it abruptly. Gregor knew already who it was. Even if that didn't tell him what happened, if Miles didn't want Gregor to tell Simon that he'd just had collapsed in front of him, that told him just how seriously he should be taking the occurrence.

It also told Gregor that this wasn't something unexpected. Oh, but it was strange to feel something other than frozen fear, especially when that something flickered anger.

“Miles.” His voice was flat. “What the hell just happened?”

Miles winced. Gregor's stomach twisted, as plausible deniability became an increasingly unlikely explanation.

“If you're worrying about what consequences your future has in hold, I would remind you you're doing very well of achieving them by withholding information from me in the present.”

He felt Miles gulp. Miles tried to get up, not far before his head fell back against into the carpet. Gregor wrapped his arm around his shoulders and aided him to a sitting position. Miles didn't seem up to much more movement, his hands clinging to Gregor as he folded his legs to a more comfortable, stable position in front of him. Gregor couldn't tell how much of the tremors was residual from what he'd just witnessed, or a result of the panic in those wild eyes.

“I believe what just happened was a seizure,” Miles supplied, face very gray.

“A seizure? Why would you – are you prone to getting them?” Gregor asked urgently. “A side-effect to medication? Whatever it is, it should be able to be treated.”

Miles shook his head. “Yeah, it should. It's like epilepsy, but not close enough to be treated the same way. Whatever they are, the underlying issue is idiosyncratic. But,” his hands curled up into fists, “but I assumed they _were_ treated. I believed them to be gone. The new medication – ” His voice wavered.

“Medication? How long has this been going on?”

Miles squeezed his eyes shut. “A year.”

A year. Ah. It felt like having a bucket of water dumped on him.

“Dr. Rowen Durona told me they were some after-effect of my cryo-revival, apparently caused by stress, and most likely temporary.”

“Evidently not.”

Miles's glare, though paired with a sickly pallor, reassured Gregor somewhat of his physical well-being. As for other definitions of well-being...

“They only happened in the first few weeks after revival, just like you saw,” said Miles, eyes flashing. “Completely random, lasted for a few minutes. They hadn't happened for nearly a year since I left Jackson's Whole. There was no reason to suspect they would come back.”

If this were truly his first seizure since last year, Miles wouldn't have been so quick to the defensive. “And when was that?” Gregor asked softly.

There was a pointed silence. “A month ago.” The answer sounded like it was being dragged from Miles's throat.

Gregor had gone past the point of wanting to raise his voice – that only came with mere exasperation and frustration, which he never acquiesced to anyway. “And you didn't tell anyone about this?”

“Mark knew.” That...was the least surprising thing Miles had said thus far. Miles lifted his chin in that familiar, defiant gesture. “And I told the Dendarii fleet surgeon. We did all of these tests to try to trigger the seizures again. Hours upon hours in her infirmary. Nothing was able to set any off, so she finally gave me some medication, and it was fine.” _Up until now_ went unsaid. “I was beginning to think the previous one could be chalked up to some freak accident.” Gregor's lips tightened at the next lie to fall as naturally as breath from Miles's mouth.

Miles didn't catch Gregor's reaction, apparently, meeting his gaze with heat, like he could blaze his way through this. “Cryo-neurology isn't her specialty, you see. I'm sure that if – ”

“That's enough,” ordered Gregor. Disbelief, denial, a desperate blindness that this wasn't real, that Miles hadn't been a ticking time bomb since he had been brought back to them – he pushed them aside, in response to the fire in Miles's eyes.

Gregor didn't see red. But he still burned, the center flame of blue that would melt steel. “This should have been resolved a year ago. I don't know how easily or how quickly, but Barrayar has access to more than a single fleet surgeon to treat her people.” His voice dropped. “But you didn't see fit to apprise ImpSec, and me through them, then, did you?”

He saw Miles's throat flutter, like he was considering speaking. He hadn't completely lost his sense, as he did not.

“Have you thought about what would happen if one of your seizures came during a mission?”

Miles's face grew increasingly blank. Of course he knew. Of course that was why he hadn't told anyone, for fear of the consequences.

“Confusion at best, chaos at worst. The two are separated by the thinnest, invisible line. Strong leadership is what transverses that tightrope. What would have happened if you were in your battle armor and seemingly dropped dead, in the middle of a firefight?”

That brought Miles to speak. “Commander Quinn would be able to keep order in my place.”

“What if your battle armor was uncontrollable? Would Commander Quinn be able to rescue your own side from friendly fire by their Admiral's hand?”

Miles closed his eyes. He was shaking. What was it like, Gregor wondered, to be able to live with the freedom of pushing the most frightening, ugliest outcomes out of mind, until they caught you when you were unaware?

“I was going to go to Escobar, to see the Durona Clinic, eventually.” The words tumbled out of Miles in a mess. “They were the ones to bring me back in the first place, it would make sense that they would be the ones to sort out this mess. This can get fixed, I know it can!” It was the closest Gregor had ever heard Miles come to pleading. Miles opened his eyes. “It will! Nothing has to change, you don't have to do this. Gregor – ”

“You're mistaken,” whispered Gregor. That wasn't supposed to be so quiet. He looked down in a fleeting moment of weakness.

It made for a terrible, cold logic. From the moment Miles died, nothing could have remained the same as before.

He met Miles's eyes again. “You're unfit for active duty as you are. As the acting Commander-in-Chief of the Barrayaran Military Service, I declare this.”

“No.” Miles was beginning to gasp. “Not active duty...? I can't be behind a desk for the rest of my life.”

Rest of his life? Gregor's mouth went dry at that slip of the tongue, that somehow Miles believed the seizures untreatable. That didn't happen. Miles never believed anything _un_ able to be done. _What had dying done to you?_

Even a life of desk work wasn't impossible, Gregor knew. They had wanted that life for him. For Miles to take over Simon's place as Chief of ImpSec. Gregor had discussed it with Simon, knowing all the while it was nothing that Miles coveted. But Simon thought that Miles was the man for the job, and so too, did Gregor, because it was _Miles._ Maybe there were places that had to be smoothed over, areas to reinforce, but having Miles be the first to watch Gregor's back was placing him in good hands, of which there was no question. And maybe, Gregor had hoped, after so long with the Dendarii, Miles might have gotten his fill of breakneck adventures and would want to return to Barrayar.

If Gregor hated when people lied to him so much, why did he lie to himself? But he had looked forward to the thought of meeting Miles every morning. Aral and Cordelia had already left for another planet, and he'd been the one to send them there. He swallowed back the sudden, hot bitterness.

“There are no active-duty positions available in ImpSec for an officer with a yet uncurable, crippling – ” Miles flinched at that word. Gregor's tongue tasted awful – “...disorder. It would betray the trust placed on him by his superiors. Moreso, it would compromise the safety of his subordinates, and through them, the safety of the Imperium.” He hesitated as he realized where this led. “If active-duty is all you're looking for, then I'm sorry. I can't offer that to you in good conscience, let alone my duty. There's only one other option to avoid desk work.”

Miles swayed a little. “Medical discharge. So that's it,” he said blankly. “I've served you for over nine years, but in truth, I've done so since we were children. I died for you.”

No, that had been no ImpSec mission – Miles had died for his brother. But Gregor couldn't doubt that Miles wouldn't have done it ten, twenty times over for his sake, too. He had risked his life so often that Gregor took it for granted, and the anguish in Miles's expression told Gregor he had made a mistake in doing so.

“I saved you, even.” Miles nearly made it an accusation.

“In more ways than one. I could never forget it. I don't forget it, even now.”

“It sounds like you are to me,” Miles choked out.

“God, Miles.” Should Gregor pride himself that his voice didn't crack even though it felt a sure thing? “I thought you had taken poison, and if you were with me, then whatever you took should have been meant for me.” Or the even worse possibility, that his enemies had begun to target the people he cared for, already so precious few in number, in order to reach him. It would be a remarkably effective, if heartless, strategy.

_I want to save you, too. Not just from death, but from the inevitable storm that would have raged if you had continued to keep this hidden. Blood and lies and losing your own self in the desperation. You can't outrun everything, Vorkosigan._

Miles didn't answer.

“I need to go,” he said suddenly, scrambling to his feet and nearly losing his footing.

“I can accompany you back to Vorkosigan House,” offered Gregor as he rose along with him. It would disservice his majordomo and Armsmen to have him leave on a moment's notice, but it was what they were trained for, and more importantly, Miles was still shaking and looked a moment from collapse.

Gregor reached out, but Miles backed away as if he were burned.

“No.” Miles shook his head. “Don't come. Please. I'll call for Pym.” His hands went to his collar, where the Horus's Eyes peered out.

All-seeing, all-knowing. The truth always came out, didn't it?

“Miles,” Gregor tried, although he doubted his words reached any ear. “Please go to Escobar and see to your medical treatment as soon as possible.” He should have said that first off.

Miles didn't acknowledge him as he rushed out of the room. Gregor thought he saw something wet fall from Miles's face as he left.

Gregor stared at the door stood ajar and didn't follow.

He had just taken everything from Miles. He could give him this.

* * *

The next morning, when Simon came to give his daily security briefing, Gregor hesitated. If that moment's hesitation had been for the stricken expression on Miles's face, then the urging of a honorable medical discharge despite Miles withholding information that endangered himself and individuals under his care was for Miles's other expression, the one swept clean of all emotion and understanding, as he had left the Imperial Residence. All of it was the result of a night of tossing and turning. _You don't have to do this,_ in Miles's own broken voice _._

Gregor had debated getting out of bed for a hypospray, or, more enticingly, to down an entire bottle of wine to force the relief, but Miles deserved this. He had paid for this agonizing, single-minded attention with his blood many times over.

Simon looked up from his stack of flimsies when he strode in front of Gregor's desk and stopped short. He blinked slowly, like he was cross-checking his memory chip, which was testament to his surprise.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Interesting word choice there, Simon. Miles probably looked worse, Gregor considered.

Simon grew increasingly alarmed at the growing silence. “You look like hell.”

“What we think, we become?” Gregor tried to smile but it felt more a grimace. Simon shot him a sharp look. “I had dinner with Miles last night.”

Simon nodded tersely and waited for Gregor to continue.

“In the middle, he collapsed suddenly.”

That got him a small flinch and widening of eyes. “Is he...?”

“He's fine.” Gregor rubbed the bridge of his nose. _No, no he's not._ “I mean, he recovered afterward and was able to speak with me. Simon, I, I discharged Miles from ImpSec.”

“ _What!?”_

“I'm sorry. Any decision should have been made with your consultation and careful consideration. I can't say if I made the right choice. But it was an emotional moment, and Miles was doing that awful lashing out he does when backed into a corner...” He looked at Simon's aghast reaction, and rubbed at his eyes. “Let me start from the beginning.”

As he explained the events of last night, Simon was frighteningly expressionless. When Gregor finally finished with Miles's departure, the lack of expression had taken on a brittle edge, like it would shatter if struck hard enough.

“Chronic seizures?” Simon took a breath. “And he thought to hide this from us, while I was giving him all of these covert ops missions?” He met Gregor's eyes, and Gregor knew they were sharing visions of all the ways the seizures could have manifested. A panicked, desperate band of heavily-armed mercenaries, bullet-ridden corpses, an empty portable cryo-chamber.

“You should have seen him during it, or...no.” Gregor didn't want to dwell on that memory of Miles's face without his personality shining through. He laid his hands flat over each other on his desk.

Miles had still been suffering from the aftereffects of the seizure when Gregor had discharged him from ImpSec. _Talk about the worst possible thing to happen at the worst possible moment._

But that wasn't true. There were far more dangerous places to suddenly collapse than before the Emperor of Barrayar. It was that thought that Gregor clung to. _But still, talk about the worst way you could hurt him..._

“I lost my temper. I was too harsh,” he admitted, the quiet words garish against the silence.

“I think it was necessary.” Simon did not, Gregor noted, refute his statement. “Saying that he possessed character flaws that made him unsuitable for a military setting, or rather, a military hierarchy, would be putting it concisely. I thought his unorthodox posting would mitigate those, and nurture the potential within.” His voice caught almost imperceptibly. “But this goes beyond mere recklessness. Almost a year ignoring a problem to the point that it's almost forgotten.” His mouth twisted, as if to say _how nice it is, to forget_. “If there's anything I've learned from my thirty years as ImpSec Chief, it's that complacency kills more than any other trait. That...goes for myself as well.”

Gregor's eyebrows rose. Simon's face didn't change, but his voice did.

“Because, even with how unexpected this all was, the worst part is that I know perfectly well why he did it.”

All of the fervor Gregor had seen possess Miles growing up had been poured heart and soul into the Dendarii. Of course he'd also go to any length to protect it. Simon had never seen Admiral Naismith in action. Gregor had, and the image, the voice, the manic, self-assured gleam in his eyes was still burned into his memory. Had that been Miles's ideal self, disguised as a covert ops persona?

“For the past ten years, I have had to accept that I was not what he was most loyal to,” said Gregor. It had been enough, to hold even part of Miles's honor between his hands. As his Emperor, nothing less than his entire life should have sufficed. But Miles was Miles, and just that chance was what Gregor wagered upon.

“But he has died once while in my service, Simon. You know what that reminds me of? That Armsman oath – _u_ _ntil my death or his releases_ _me._ ”

The implication caught quickly. Simon's mouth dropped. “Sire, surely those words can't be taken into consideration for a Count's heir!”

“Surely not. But I think of them, regardless.” The oath of a Count's heir were to him and to Barrayar beyond him. But what about what existed between him and Miles, only? Not Barrayar, not – oh god, not Miles's parents or family, but just about them?

The possibility had seized him last night, had led to the unending hours tossing and turning with the same thought racing through his mind. Maybe thinking endlessly of it, re-living it over and over again, would lessen the keen emptiness he felt.

_Miles might run. He might run, and never look back, and I would let him._

_Will this be the second time the Dendarii have taken him from me?_

* * *

The next morning upon his entrance, Simon wordlessly held out his hand. In his palm sat two silver eyes.

Gregor didn't need to turn them over to read the name and serial number engraved there.

* * *

It jolted Gregor a bit out of the days-long gaping lethargy to see Ivan Vorpatril appear on the screen before him. Ivan never used the privilege of the proximity to the Emperor, although Gregor knew Ivan considered it more of a curse than a privilege.

“Ivan?” Gregor sat up. “What is it?”

“Have you talked with Miles recently?” demanded Ivan.

“A week ago.”

The time since then had felt almost like the numbness after the discovery of the empty cryo-chamber. Incomprehension, a wariness, nonacceptance of the much colder, grayer future, and the uncertainty of where the threads of the galaxy would tug him.

But Miles was certainly alive now, and whatever happened from this point on would be solely his decision, upon which everything else waited.

So no – no, it hadn't felt like that time at all.

“Why?” Gregor asked, and Ivan's eyes narrowed at him.

“He's acting odd, and I don't mean in the normal way where you have to dive for cover.” Ivan's face soured, the exasperated affection he had for Miles not nearly sounding as frustrated as usual. Or frustrated at all. Gregor beckoned him to go on.

“He called me up this morning, wanting a night on the town. That should have been my tip-off that something was off – or, no, the tip-off should have been that he was calling from a public comconsole. But anyway, it's _rare_ that he initiates something like that. He's not very well known in Vorbarr Sultana other than being the son of Uncle Aral and the – other things they say about him, and I don't think he likes being reminded of that when we go out.” Ivan shrugged his shoulders in a jerk. “But I had prior evening arrangements courtesy of Mother, and this is when...”

Ivan scowled like a cat. “He started waxing poetic on me, telling me that I've been a great friend, probably the best he's ever had, and thanked me for always going along with his maniac schemes. And before I had the time to scrape my mouth off the floor, he'd cut the link, and I haven't been able to reach him since.”

Gregor resisted a gulp.

“He's not dying, is he?” Ivan's eyes widened. “Shit, but he loves that tragic, heroic martyrdom stuff. I'd tell him to stuff it, we already _know_ what it's like with him dead and it's not in the _least_ bit romantic!”

Suffering from an unpredictable, unknown seizure disorder was not the best state of health to be in, but – “He's not dying,” Gregor said. Not in the way that Ivan was thinking.

Part of Miles had been killed, and, Gregor realized with a sudden rush of emotion that felt like tying a weight around his ankle and tossing him out to sea, this was Miles's attempt to forcibly revive it.

“Then what the hell's going on? Because if Miles is going on like that, it means that even if he's not going to die, it sure soon is going to feel like he did.” Got it in one.

“I think...Miles may be ready to leave Barrayar forever.”

“What?” said Ivan in incomprehension. “Why the hell would he do that? Desertion by a Count's heir would be treason. He's already had to run his circles around the Nexus to avoid being charged with _that_.”

Ivan deserved to know, Gregor told himself as he laid out, terse, the events that had unfolded that evening. When he finished, the only small gratification came from Ivan finally looking more angry than frightened.

“You _took_ the Dendarii from him? After all he's done for you?” _They_ already took him from me in the way it matters, Gregor wanted to retort hotly, but the guilt and shame stopped him.

“I believe that Miles may be trying to take the Dendarii back.”

“That's _definitely_ treason!” Ivan nearly barked.

“I can't deny it. Even I wouldn't be able to save him from that charge.”

“But that would do it,” Ivan trailed off. “The Dendarii would definitely be enough. Damn, I should have thought to trace the comconsole! Not that it'd be much help if he's on the move, but at least you know he's still on Barrayar somewhere.”

“You're mistaken.” Those words crushed hopes, coming from his mouth. “There is no current search ongoing for Miles.”

He thought that Ivan would react loudly, brashly, violently to that. He would have preferred that to the blank look of betrayal. “You're letting him go.”

“Do you really believe that ImpSec and I combined could stop him?”

Ivan didn't answer, but Gregor knew what he was thinking and didn't dare to say. _It's the goddamned principle of the thing, Gregor! Have you given up on him, when he never gave up on you?_

 _I'm not giving up on him,_ Gregor thought sullenly. _I'm trying to be unselfish, and set him free from Barrayar._

“I thought that, if there was anything to stop him, it would be his family. That includes you.” _Aral, Cordelia, I'm so sorry..._

Gregor's eyes flicked to the door, where an insistent knock came for the third time.

“I have a meeting now. I have to go.” A rare moment where he could think of nothing to say. “Ivan, I'm sorry.”

“You better damn well be.” Ivan's voice broke on the last word before the link was cut.

* * *

 

“Sire, a personal message for you.”

“Hm? Set it aside. Anyone not associated with a governing body of the Imperium who wishes contact with me will have to wait until – ” Gregor pondered his schedule for the week. Next week? The week after next?

“The Thursday after next is your scheduled afternoon whereupon subjects of the Vorbarran District may air their grievances with their Count. Another point – this message was sent via tightbeam. Anonymously.”

“By tightbeam?” Gregor frowned. If it was urgent, anyone he knew would have sent it with the stamp of their governing colony. If it was personal correspondence – Gregor frowned as he mentally ran through a list of people off-planet who would think to send him a message, and came up short. Elena Bothari-Jesek, perhaps, now that she was retired? But she would have realized that sending it through the Dendarii – he willed his heart to remain steady – would have been the most prudent option to guarantee anything before his eyes. “Has anyone viewed it, yet?”

“No. It was marked for your eyes only, as Gregor Vorbarra.” The distaste at the sender's omittal of _His Imperial Majesty_ crept into his secretary's voice. “The ImpSec officers thought it should be otherwise, but, as pointed out, there has not yet been devised an assassination method through tightbeam message.”

“Huh. Humor me, and give it here, then.”

The disk was handed to him with a deferential “Sire.” Gregor turned and inserted it into his comconsole. He nodded at his personal secretary. For Gregor's eyes meant for Gregor's eyes, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Gregor's iron will to keep heart to remain steady failed him when the holovid showed up.

Miles's image blinked back at him, in that stiff self-consciousness that came from speaking into a vid camera.

“Gregor,” Miles said, the single word hanging in the silence between them. No, not between them. When it had been recorded, it had been a silence for Miles, himself.

“It figures.” Miles's laugh was hollow. “I couldn't leave without saying a word. But now I'm here to speak them, none come.” He shrugged. “I resolved not to re-record this, or else I'll remain here too long and lose my momentum.”

“After dying the first time, I – recorded some holovids, in the event that it happened again. My parents, Mark, Ivan, Elli, you understand the point. I didn't record one for you. What could I tell you, that wouldn't twist the knife further? Dying in your name has always been my right as Vorkosigan. And,” he took a breath, “you're the one that who would understand that best, anyhow.”

“But I think I was wrong. I should have recorded one for you, just like this. For Gregor Vorbarra's eyes only. What did you think about that? Along with the tightbeam, I figured your curiosity would get the better of you. _Let's see what happens,”_ Miles quoted back to him, and Gregor shared in his smile.

“I don't want – can't – I know what you wanted for me. My future, mapped out, in parallel to the Imperium, which you wanted to be _your_ Imperium.” Miles visibly gulped.

“Death before dishonor is the old mantra.” Miles shook his head. “I'm not afraid of death, not anymore. But...I'm afraid of becoming someone I'm not, shaped only by my loss. My weakness has always been not knowing who I am, but I know perfectly well who I'm not. That's why.”

_Building your person by carefully avoiding the empty parts of yourself? It's not such a terrible way to live, until you find how much easier it is to not have yourself erode away._

“But before that,” Miles looked straight into the camera, his smallness from penitence swiftly swept away. “Dying in your name is one thing, Gregor. That means to swallow the bitterness, because being Vor is, ultimately, being expendable. But dying for _you_ is different. That, I can say, would have been the greatest that Miles Vorkosigan could have aspired to. In you, I have been shaped by Barrayar in the best way.”

Miles suddenly blinked rapidly and looked away, like the intensity was too great to look head-on. “I'm sorry.” The vid ended abruptly.

It took a moment of slow, steady breathing for Gregor to regain his composure. He debated replaying the video, and – no. That would be too great for him. Miles's force had bowled many a lesser man over, and even Gregor felt like swaying on his feet now, if he were not safely secure in his chair. The reeling sensation only cleared upon reaching his decision.

Gregor's hands remained steady as he reached into his desk to pull out his tools, foregoing the flimsy and stylus. A stack of parchment – he didn't have excess faith in his wordsmith abilities, but then again, none of the true ones did, and a pen. A deep, inner calm washed over him as he stared at the blank page.

Miles could see an empty space before him and simultaneously _not_ see it, only seeing it filled to the brim with all the potential in the world. Potential that he took it upon himself to offer, with all the frantic drive and energy it required. All Gregor could ever do was rearrange the pieces present, endlessly, deliberately, until time or necessity stopped his hand.

* * *

Gregor was woken by his comconsole ringing at him. He squinted at his chrono. _0221,_ it read, and he swore privately as he went to answer the call.

Simon appeared like he had recently been roused from sleep himself, though one would not know it from his neat uniform and clean-shaven face. It was his eyes that gave him away. Gregor began to fear the worst. An uprising on Komarr, an extremist group acting on their own home soil to leave dozens dead, or –

“You asked for any status updates on Miles's location as soon as we heard them.” Gregor relaxed minutely as Simon continued. “We have confirmed that he has left Barrayar,” _finally,_ Gregor heard the unsaid word, “as of three hours ago.” Well on his way to the first jump-point, but early enough that he could still be stopped. “What are your orders to proceed, Sire?” That tension in Simon's shoulders said _expectant,_ and Gregor sighed.

“He is moving within Imperial borders while on leave. Perfectly within his rights.” Gregor ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Any charges will not be made until we have word that Admiral Naismith is on the move again.”

“Sire,” Simon urged, his eyes unreadable. “Then, what of the Viceroy and Vicereine?” he prompted.

If Miles had chosen the Dendarii over Barrayar, then it fell to Gregor to inform them of his decision. Being in communication with someone who had committed treason counted as accessory to the crime. Miles would never subject his parents to that. It was cowardice of the highest order, as powerful as the conviction it took to commit to the silence.

“Until Admiral Naismith is on the move again,” Gregor repeated. “But...they would be the first to know.”

A ripple went through his ImpSec Chief. “Gregor, you know I can't agree with your handling of the situation. This could become an unprecedented...situation that we could prevent, with your word.”

“I have made my points over this to you constantly, and I tire of it. Do not question me again on this, Chief Illyan.”

“Understood, Sire.” Simon's voice grew a shade cooler. “Then, I bid you a good night. I'll see you in the morning.”

Gregor stared at the blank comconsole screen for a moment before giving up. He crawled back into bed and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to steal him away. It didn't.

As the first rays of dawn crept past the slit of the curtains, Gregor climbed out of bed to the desk in the room to finish what he'd begun.

* * *

_Lord Miles Vorkosigan,_ it read on the front of the heavy, cream-colored paper. On the other side, Gregor carefully pressed the indent of the Vorbarra seal. Gregor then turned the tool over, to prick his thumb and press the drop of blood to the envelope's seal, watching as it made a scarlet impression that soon faded to a shade of carmine.

“Fast courier,” he said, delivering it to the hand of his Armsman, whose eyes had been carefully averted from his Imperial master's doings. “To the limits of my Imperial Power.”

They bowed to him. “Understood, Sire.”

* * *

The updates came in every so often, clipped and without providing further detail, just as Gregor asked the surveillance to be conducted.

Komarr ten days after the nighttime awakening. Bypassing Sergyar entirely, unsurprisingly. Pol Station soon after. At that point, Gregor had quietly informed Simon that he was to hear no more until Naismith was on the move.

There came nothing but radio silence, then.

* * *

It was a beautiful day, rare to have so late the season, of the sort that all the Vor ladies dreamed of for a wedding. Even the thought of a wedding for himself wasn't so unpleasant as usual today. Gregor tilted his head back in his chair, soaking in the sunlight whose warmth reached far, even for him. It was a day for the simple enjoyment of existence, he thought, not for shaking the world and steering Barrayar from its orbit. Maybe the conspirators of the world would agree with him, for once. Or no, they'd be contrary just to be contrary, and with a soft sigh, he opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the gardens below the balcony, only to jerk upright in his chair.

Below, eyes blazing, stood Miles. In his right hand he gripped a battered envelope bearing the Vorbarra arms, sealed by the Vorbarra's own blood.

Gregor rushed to the railing, gripping its edge. He must be dreaming. It had been two weeks since the last of the reports he'd heard. He had a sudden, wild thought to vault over and jump, just like a decade ago, but for wholly different reasons, though the out-of-body feeling remained. But he was no longer the frightened, despaired boy freshly ascended into his reign.

It was the Emperor's position that people came to him. But Gregor didn't much care, turning and rushing through the Residence instead. The purposeful walk that was the closest he ever came to running came with startled gasps that counted as squawks from his Armsmen, to the actual squawks from his servants, who stared after him wide-eyed. When had the Emperor last looked like that? Gregor couldn't remember, either. The exhilaration pumped his legs faster and harder, like it would push him forward forever, and was this what was so fun about always moving forward? By the time he reached the side entrance to the grounds, he had started into a jog,

Until he slowed to a walk, then a halt in front of his target.

Gregor couldn't speak, even though his actions had told himself so much of what he wanted to convey here.

“I didn't pin you for the dramatic flair sort,” said Miles, with a short huff of laughter, when he was the one who had just appeared at Gregor's window without a warning. Gregor would probably need to speak with Simon about how all his security had just been slipped through.

After a breathless, endless silence, Miles shifted. “I didn't go past Pol Station.”

Meaning, he had never left the borders of the Imperium. Meaning, charges of desertion and of the reason that followed were null and void.

“You're mistaken,” said Miles slowly. “Barrayar is, in fact, the greatest obstacle I have ever faced. It has always challenged me on who I am and who I want to be. I became Naismith because I didn't want to think about it.” He sighed. “But I think I'm done with fighting myself and not choosing which direction my flight should take. So here's a new goal: I...want to become a proper Lord Vorkosigan, to challenge and change not just myself, but the world along with you.”

His half-smile suddenly seemed brittle. “At least, if you don't want to punt me out of Vorbarr Sultana and never see me again other than at the Council of Counts, but I'm sure you could manage that if you really wanted to.”

Gregor shook his head.

“Well, congratulations then,” Miles choked out, squeezing the letter so hard his arm trembled. He lifted his chin in that familiar, defiant gesture, but the glistening in his gray, rapidly blinking eyes was anything but. “You're officially the first person who changed my mind after I had already come to a decision. I think I have whiplash.”

Gregor was already moving again, driven by something like the panic he never allowed himself.

They fell into an embrace. Miles trembled, holding him so tightly Gregor thought he'd never let go.

Neither of them would have to, anymore.

* * *

_Dear Miles,_

_This letter comes from my own hand, and my own Voice._

_All Emperors must have a will, although in the course of things, the turning over of the Imperial Camp Stool is a process that is in no need of one individual's personal posthumous wishes to drive it. So, leaving behind personal messages for those closest to me felt...possessive, somehow, of them. My grandfather apparently did not believe so. But upon receiving your message, I must reconsider my stance. It is to be honored and humbled to not be forgotten. Perhaps those people who have went down in Barrayaran history knew this, which is why we still remember._

_Speaking of memories, my encounter with the Dendarii was one of the most terrifying, terrible, and valuable experiences of my life. The challenges I faced there not only threatened my life, but my entire sense of self, which is a far more dangerous obstacle to overcome._

_When I emerged from that experience, it was with the hope that I could control my world. To a helpless bird, it was like offering the chance of flight, no matter how many times one would fall and stumble and crash. I can state with no less reassurance that I would not be the person I am today without them, and you by extension._

_There are things that I wish we both had not done, or had not said. Those feelings around those may persist yet, but none reflect on what I am about to tell you._

_I know what the Dendarii means to you, because I understand what they meant to me. If you charge back to them, to repeat the process again and again, in the hopes of finding yourself and your moment of flight, then leave planets trembling in your wake._

_Take the freedom and the stars, the acceptance that you are a person beyond the expendability of Vor, able to reach as far past those constraints as you want, and can, and will. They are yours. I only wish that you could have seen those same horizons in Barrayar, but if you know yourself, that greatest obstacle to overcome, then in my eyes, there is no such thing as dishonor._

_On behalf of Barrayar, I apologize. On behalf of myself, never forget, while I take breath, that my loyalty to you remains forever Vor._

_Yours, Gregor_


End file.
